She reached for the door handle. “Is there anyone in Salem youdon’tknow?”
For a half-succubus, Annette had a strong introverted streak. “Her name’s Monique. She makes those miniature witches’ brooms we sell as novelty desk dusters.”
“Seriously? Those are so kitschy.” She opened the door and did anAfter youwave.
Inside was a cozy living room that doubled as a lobby, with worn loveseats and chairs and a coffee table covered in brochures for various Salem attractions. From the kitchen came the smell of eggs with too much pepper, pancakes, bacon, sourdough toast and rhubarb jam, and orange juice. Spread through it all was a strong aroma of instant coffee.
An older man poked his head through the kitchen doorway. “Welcome to the Maule House, how can I help—oh, hello, Jenny!”
“Hi, CJ!” I gave him a wave and a grin, then whispered to Annette, “That’s Monique’s husband.”
His smile faltered as he noticed Annette standing behind me and took in her appearance. A night of sleep had helped enough for her to remove the bandages and let the healing burns air out. Annette’s teeth ground as CJ stared at her drying blisters and scabbed skin.
“She had a minor accident in the kitchen.” I spoke loudly, hoping to get CJ’s attention before Annette slugged him. “She was making fudge. The double boiler blew.”
His expression turned sympathetic. “I’ve had my share of kitchen mishaps. Ask Monique about the Great Fried Turkey Debacle of 2023. I was lucky to keep my ear.” He pointed to the dining room off to our right. “Have you two eaten yet? I made too many eggs again.”
“Next time, thanks,” I said. “We’re just here to pick up a friend from out of town. Tell Monique I said hi!”
We walked through a hallway decorated with black-and-white photos of historical landmarks and figures from Salem’s past, then climbed the steps at the end of the hall.
Upstairs, I stopped to sniff each door. I paused at door six, took a closer whiff of the doorknob, and nodded to Annette. She stepped to one side.
I knocked. Waited. Knocked a second time.
“Maybe he left?” whispered Annette.
“I hear him breathing. I think he’s asleep.”
“It’s ten in the morning. He’s as bad as my grandkids.” Annette reached into her purse and brought out a set of lockpicks. I watched the stairs while she worked to make sure we weren’t interrupted. Twenty seconds later, she tucked her tools away and quietly turned the knob.
A crack of sunlight snuck through the drawn curtains to fall upon the figure of Ronald Kensington in plaid boxers, sprawled across cotton sheets. A blanket had been kicked into a twisted log at the bottom of the bed. Drool darkened the pillowcase at the corner of his mouth.
Dirty clothes covered the carpet, along with an empty pizza box from Engine House. Cans of Monster energy drink sat on the dresser. Leaning against the headboard were a large crossbow and a sheathed katana. From the volume and smell of the laundry, Ronnie had been staying here at least a week.
“What’s that on the carpet in front of the door?” asked Annette.
I dropped to one knee. White and black specks—salt and pepper, from the smell—drew a crude circle the width of the door. Well, more an oval than a circle. Anyone stepping inside would have to pass over it. “Protection spell, or maybe an alarm?” I guessed. “There’s another in front of the window.”
I sat back and removed my tetradrachm necklace. I wrapped the chain around my hand, took the coin between my thumb and index finger, and used it to draw a line through the circle.
A shock jolted my forearm, leaving it numb from the elbow down. I grimaced and tried again. This time, nothing happened when I disturbed the spell. “We’re clear.” I used my other hand to replace my necklace. “Some sort of paralysis effect, I think.”
The amulet had taken the brunt of the spell, but my hand tingled like I’d slept on it. I flexed my fingers as I crept inside.
A change in Ronnie’s breathing gave me half a second’s warning. He bolted upright in the bed and lunged for his sword.
I was faster, jumping forward to kick it out of his reach. What was it about teenaged boys and katanas, anyway? What was wrong with a nice rapier, or maybe a good, solid gladius? “I don’t want to fight, Ronnie. We promised your mother we’d do this with a minimum of ass-kicking.”
His fists clenched. “Leave her out of this.”
“Then talk,” I said. When his eyes shifted toward the window, I added, “Our friend Temple is outside, and he has a magic missile with your name on it. Try to run, and he’ll shoot your feet off.”
“Magic missile?” Annette murmured, low enough only I would hear.
I waved her question away. This wasn’t the time to educate her on made-up Dungeons and Dragons spells.
Ronnie was looking past me at Annette. Well, not looking so much as staring. Or maybe gawking. Not an unusual response to a succubus, but he hadn’t acted like this the first time he saw her, back at the shop.
